Intensate
by Hanson's Angel
Summary: Short-ish one-shot where Dean is sick and Sam is there for him in his own Sam-like way.  Just my usual respiratory!sick!Dean, blah-blah, can't help myself, etc.  Some mild language.


Summary: **Written for this prompt at the hoodie_time fever meme: Dean with pneumonia. _He spikes a sudden, high fever and they realize how sick he is. I don't know, I just have a thing for pneumonia Dean. Any genre. _As do I - have a thing for pneumonia Dean, that is. It is irresistable to me. This is basically just what the prompt says: Dean and Sam, gen, Dean gets sick with a fever and pneumonia. I've done it to death a dozen and one times, and this one is just like all the rest, but I have no defense. I love him feverish and unable to breathe about as much as I love my family. LOL, that's crazy, I know but there you go. **

Warnings/Spoilers: **None. It's all good.**

Disclaimer: **No harm or infringement intended. No profit made, except the psychological profit I receive when Dean is sick and people try to take care of him. **

**/ **

It comes on out of the blue, out of nowhere and it hits him lightening quick, without warning. One minute Dean's feeling like he always does, and then the next - that Sunday afternoon - he's apparently coming down with something, some kind of cold or some such shit. He doesn't feel terrible, but his chest feels weird, like there's something both airy and weighty sitting in it, like he needs to keep taking an extra breath but doing that makes him feel - kind of breathless. There's a tickle at the back of his throat as well, making him cough every time he does the extra breathing thing that doesn't seem to be - doing him any good.

But other than that, Dean feels okay, just irritated that he's been forced to become aware of his own breathing, especially since there's no reason he should have to - it's not like he's being strangled, choked, poisoned or otherwise having the life squeezed out of him. At least not at the moment. But whatever. It's just a weird cough-thing, some cold or virus that he picked up somewhere and while it's annoying, there's definitely other things he could be dealing with that are far more annoying.

So Dean basically ignores the weird feeling and the irritating cough and keeps doing his own thing - in this case, hunting and killing some evil son-of-a-bitches.

It's not unusual for the two of them to get the same sickness if one of them comes down with something - they're brothers, they share living quarters, weapons, personal space. When they were young it was inevitable; but even now, when they're grown, it still happens more often than not. They're used to it, don't even mention it - for the most part -definitely don't let such things like a cold or virus slow them down.

At least not very much.

They're on their way to Illinois, holed up for the night in the usual dump, Dean lounging on one of the beds, one eye on the television, Sam planted in front of his laptop, trying to talk out the meaning of some kind of markings that have been found at the various victims' homes. Or, at least, they're trying to hash it out, but the cold-cough thing Dean's noticed over the past day is stepping it up full force, and he has to keep going into the bathroom to refill a cup with shitty, tepid motel water to try and soothe it. He still feels all right, just the throat and chest crap hounding him. "You, too?" Sam asks him, when Dean emerges from the bathroom with his fifth glass of water.

"What?" He thinks Sam's talking about the case, and that he's missed the reference, what with spending all his time in the damn bathroom, drinking the water and then having to piss it out every twenty minutes.

Sam nods at the glass in Dean's hand. "Your throat bothering you?"

"I -" Dean stops, stares. "What do you mean, 'you, too'?"

Sam pulls a plastic bag out of his shirt pocket, fingers out what looks like some kind of candy, and pops it into his mouth. "All that coughing you're doing," he says. "Figure we've probably caught the same cold. Unless we've got some kind of curse going on or something."

Now that Dean thinks of it, Sam_ has_ spent the better part of the afternoon discreetly clearing his throat and making all sorts of hacking sounds while they were driving. "Damn it, Sam," Dean says. "Why didn't you say something? And what kind of bug did you bring in now?"

"Me?" Sam says. "How do you know it wasn't you? You're the oldest, as you like to always point out. You probably infected me."

"That doesn't make any sense," Dean grumbles. "Being the oldest doesn't have anything to do with who gets who sick." He sets the glass down on the nightstand, sits on the bed and pulls his boots on.

"What're you doing?"

"What do you think? Going out and getting you some cold medicine," Dean says.

"I don't need any cold medicine," Sam says. He pats his pocket, the plastic wrap crinkling inside. "I've got my peppermint candies I can take."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard of," Dean says, standing up and grabbing his jacket off the back off the chair - but not before the powdery feeling in his chest rises up and he coughs. "Peppermint candy isn't going to do you any good, Sam."

"I've gotten by on a lot less."

Dean just shakes his head. "You'd think I wouldn't have to still be doing this at this point. A simple cold and I have to be the one to tell you how to take care of it." He coughs again, for good measure.

"Yeah, the blind leading the blind," Sam snickers. Dean rewards him with the middle finger and fifteen minutes later, a bottle of Nyquil and a bottle of Tylenol - the two things the Winchesters have fought colds and flus with all their lives.

And he thinks no more of it. He and Sam, sharing a cold like they've done dozens of times over the years, bitching and moaning and taking the OTC meds and then going on their way. No reason to think this will be any different.

Even though it will be.

Three days later and Sam is already on the mend, which Dean is glad about. Really, Sam's version of the cold/virus seems pretty fucking minor - a bit of a cough, a little snot and Sam crashing earlier than he normally would. By the fourth day, he sounds back to himself, and has his color in his face. It's like he was never sick at all.

Dean, on the other hand, seems to be heading in the other direction. It's not that he's feeling sick - like "sick enough to be in bed," sick, but he is worn out, likely from the damn cough that's keeping him awake at night. Falling asleep takes way longer than it should, and once he finally does, it's been inevitable that an hour or - if Dean's lucky - two later, he'll cough himself awake. Lying down seems to be the issue - when he's upright all day he barely remembers he's got a damn cold. When a week's gone by, and his sleep is seriously messed up, Dean even tries sleeping with extra pillows, to no avail.

"How is it that you're better already?" Dean complains, when he's entering into week two of the Cold-From-Hell, the cold Sam seemed to have shaken in less than five days.

"Just tougher than you, I guess," Sam says. "I always knew I was."

"Shut up," Dean says, and while he knows Sam's just fucking around, he's in no mood for it, is tired and headachy and irritable from not sleeping right.

Sam quits messing around then, can see Dean isn't up to it. "I don't know, dude," he says. "I just kept taking the medicine you bought and it let me get some sleep. I don't know why you don't just take some yourself. It can't hurt."

"Because I hate that shit," Dean says. And he does - always has, even when he was little. It wasn't just the taste - though the metallic, cherry goopiness of it was certainly bad in its own right - but the way it made - still makes - him feel. Rather than relaxed and sleepy, it more often than not makes him jittery and restless. He goes over to the table and picks up the bottle of Jim Beam. "This is all the medicine I need."

"Yeah, and how's that working out for you?" Sam demands. "Honestly, Dean - how is that any better than sucking on peppermint candy?"

"You really have to ask that?" Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes but leaves him to his self-medication in peace. It's true - the whiskey hasn't done much in the way of the cold itself, has maybe allowed him to fall asleep easier but hasn't kept him from waking up coughing and wheezing at three in the morning. _Oh, well, just have to wait it out,_ Dean thinks, downing one last shot. _This certainly can't last much longer._

Turns out, that's not entirely true.

In the meantime, they get rid of a vengeful spirit in Illinois and go on to gank a vampire in Pennsylvannia. Sam's cold is gone by the time they leave Illinois, but by the time they're doing a salt-and-burn in Ohio, Dean's cold - or virus - or whatever the hell it is - has been hanging on for just over a month, and the cough that once only bothered him when he was trying to sleep has turned into something that he pretty much has going on 24/7. It's not keeping him confined to bed or anything, but whatever this thing is, it's interfering with his eating and sleeping to the point of exhaustion. "Take the cold medicine," Sam says one night - morning - at one-thirty - when Dean's had to pause for twenty minutes to hack up a lung and anything else willing to come up while digging up the requisite grave. "You need it."

"I have been," Dean says. He's bought and choked down more of the shit in the past however-many-days than he cares to think about, and all it's done is make him feel slightly nauseous on top of everything else. "It's not helping." His voice is gone - though if it's from all the coughing or another new symptom, he doesn't know. Doesn't care, truth be told - he's just tired of not sleeping right and not being able to catch his breath - all because of a damn cold.

A cold Sam managed to get rid of in five - five! - days, Dean thinks, downing yet more whiskey, while Sam finishes shoveling the grave dirt. Not that that's doing anything helpful, either, slamming booze like it's water, but it isn't making things worse for him - at least not that Dean can notice. But what the hell else can he do? The fucking thing's held on for over a month and whiskey and cold medicine haven't touched it and they have far more important things to worry about so Dean's just going to have to wait it out.

They get back to the motel and within two minutes Dean is crashed, fully clothed, not even bothering with getting under the covers. He's wiped - of course, he's been this way for days - weeks, now - but this is the last stop - he shouldn't be this far gone but he is, can't help it, likely wouldn't be able to keep to his feet even if his life depended on it. The last thing Dean hears is Sam's voice, from far away, asking him something about if he's okay and doesn he want anything.

And then Dean's out.

When he comes to, it's dawn, the room blue-gray, and Dean hasn't felt this physically miserable in fuck-knows how long.

He's buried under the blankets and his body aches enough so he can't move, but he can hear Sam sleeping in the other bed, so whatever is wrong with him - it's all on Dean.

For once, he hasn't woken up because he's coughing, but there's a sharp pain slicing from the front of his chest and into his upper back, enough so that he shifts position to try and relieve it, but moving around only makes him realize the rough shape he's really in. IMust've pulled something,/I he thinks, as he slowly pulls himself into a sitting position. He's thirsty and queasy and chilled in addition to the pain, but for the first time in a long time, Dean isn't coughing his head off, so maybe that shit's going away, in favor of being racked up from last night's hunt.

He shuffles into the bathroom, but has to grip the sink in order to keep from falling, and he catches sight of himself. Pale, huge bruises of fatigue beneath his eyes and even though he's not coughing, he's panting for some reason, like he just sprinted at top speed. He takes a drink of water, but after the first two sips, he can tell it's not going to sit well, and he puts the glass down. No sense drinking anything if it's just going to come back up.

He's suddenly so very incredibly tired.

He fumbles his way back to his bed, Sam still asleep, and once more, crawls beneath the blankets, shivering so hard his head throbs. The pain in his chest and back is relentless, and no turning and moving eases it. Dean finally falls into a restless doze - or at least he thinks he does, because the next thing he's aware of is Sam gently smacking him on the hip. "Hey. You up?"

Sunlight is flooding the room and it hurts the hell out of Dean's eyes. "Yeah," he gasps. The pain is still there, in his chest and back, and his head is pounding in time to the thready racing of his heart. "Gimme a minute."

"What's going on?" Sam is next to him in an instant. "You hurt?"

"No." Dean's voice is a rasp, nails on a chalkboard. "Don't think so." Although it's crossed his mind, is crossing it now, what with the back and chest pain, how weary he feels.

"You're sick." It's a statement of fact, not a question, and then Sam is rummaging around in the bathroom and back with a damn thermometer, of all things. "Here. Three minutes."

"Get that damn thing away from me."

And Sam has the nerve to look - amused - despite the concern that's there. "Okay, then. What do you want to do? Take a run to the nearest clinic?"

"For what?" And really, Dean isn't completely sure "what" is wrong, and means it when he asks the question. "Just - I'll crash for a little while longer and then I'll be all right. Just tired."

Sam looks like he wants to say more, but then decides against it, which is a good thing because Dean can hardly sit up and sinks back into the sheets with a moan. "Just a little while longer, Sammy."

"Yeah, okay," Sam agrees. "I'll go grab some coffee. We still have a couple hours before we have to be out of here."

But it turns out that the back/chest pain is _killing_ and Dean can't get back to sleep, can't even get comfortable. The closest he comes is lying on his back, with a pillow jammed under his left ribs, but then he can't pull in a decent breath to save his life. He tires to sit up but he can't, not really, not with how warm and dizzy he feels. Dean doesn't know what the hell is going on, but the moment Sam walks back through the door, he feels relief wash over him. He can't even tell Sam what's wrong, can't get it into words, but luckily he doesn't have to - Sam knows right away that this is the last stop, that there's not going to be anymore fooling around with this.

"You're going see a doctor," Sam says, the earlier amusement clearly replaced by a grimness Dean can actually feel as Sam helps him on with his jacket, fumbles with the laces on Dean's boots. "You're running a fever, you've been sick for goddamn ever." He sounds pissed, though at who or what, Dean's not sure.

They find a clinic but it's slow going - everyone and their grandmother is sick, and it's nearly an hour and a half before they're brought into a room, another feverish half hour before Dean's examined. After that, there's a chest film and lab work, a thermometer and some white clip thing attached to his finger. "Pneumonia," pronounces some doctor who sounds way too chipper for what's going on. "Your left lung is pretty involved." He sticks Dean's film into the reader almost triumphantly. "If the breathing treatment doesn't help, we'll have to talk about putting you into the hospital." Then someone's putting a mask on him, something attached to a machine that pumps some kind of foul-tasting medicine into Dean's lungs and throat, making him cough and gag shit up into a little pink plastic container that Sam holds for him until he's finished. "Goddamn it," Dean rasps, when it's over. He's still feverish, still breathing like shit, but he at least feels a little clearer in his head. "This is bullshit."

"I know," Sam says. His hand is on Dean's back, for just an instant, but it makes Dean feel better immediately. "But I've got this."

"I don't want to stay here."

"You won't have to."

"You heard - what the guy said." Six words, and Dean's barely able to spit them out without coughing.

"I don't care what he said. All that matters is what I say." Sam goes over to the sink, pours a cup of water and hands it to him. "And if you want to go, we'll go."

He's so tired, so worn down, feels like he could fly apart a dozen different ways, and Dean knows all of it is from the fever but he can't keep the tears from pricking the back of his eyes anyway, and he keeps his head down and sips the water so Sam won't notice.

It doesn't matter, though - Sam's hand is suddenly resting on his shoulder, and it stays there. "It'll be okay, Dean," he says again. "I've got this. You just let me take care of you for a change."

And it's this - Sam in the here and now, steadying him, anchoring him - that Dean knows will be the best thing for him, better than any hospital or medicine or doctor could ever be.

Because he always is.


End file.
